Fever Dreams
by MyraRain223
Summary: Jason catches a nasty virus that leaves him delirious and out of it for a while. Bruce is right there to comfort him, even if Jason can be downright feral when hurt. Just general fluff with a little angst - because it's Jason, of course. No slash. Rated T for mentions of past abuse.


**This actually started out as a part of one of my other works, but it got to be too long to include in a chapter of my Lengths verse. Soooo, I'm just putting this as a one shot for now. Hope you all enjoy!**

Sometimes, when Bruce would come home from patrol, and before Jason had officially taken the mantle of Robin, he would pause at the entrance to Jason's room on his way to his own. Bruce would hear rustling from the doorway and would peak inside. The boy was often a troubled sleeper. He would toss and turn constantly, groaning and crying at times. The first night in the manor, Bruce had heard him screaming in his sleep. His heart had been racing as he slammed open the door to get to the boy's bed. But Jason had come alive at that exact moment – turning wild and panic-stricken eyes to his new adoptive father. At first, Bruce had assumed the fear was only filtering through from his nightmare, but he'd been wrong. Jason's face had hardened in the half light of the moon, but not before Bruce had realized that the fear had been directed at him.

"Get out!" Jason had screamed, not quite able to hide the panic in his eyes. It took the boy a moment and a long breath before he said in a calmer voice, "Please."

Bruce had always complied, even if he still ran to the room every time Jason was trapped in his dreamscape.

This boy was so much more difficult than Dick had ever been. Bruce couldn't find it in him to blame the boy though – he'd seen Jason's file. Still, there was a distance between them that Jason had thus far thoroughly worked to maintain. Dick had always been ready with an easy smile, or a kind word. More than that, Dick had always been free with his feelings. If he was ever upset or hurt, he would seek out either Bruce or Alfred to discuss it. In the six months since Jason had come to live in the manor, he had pointedly refused to talk about his feelings. More often than not, an argument led to a disappearance – for a day, two at the most. He would return when a sufficient amount of time had passed and then appear for dinner the next day, like nothing had happened at all.

At times, when Jason pulled a disappearing act, and in the dead of night, Bruce found himself questioning his decision to take the boy in. He wasn't quite ashamed of that line of questioning. Jason needed so much more than Dick ever had. Bruce knew logically that he was comparing the two boys too much, but that was what every parent did. Every parent had favorites, and it was usually the easier child. But then, there were other times too. Times when Bruce got home after a long, grueling patrol when Jason was waiting at home with a sarcastic comment or inconsequential question that left him smiling until morning. It was on nights like those that Bruce truly loved the child he had brought into his home.

In all that time, straight through winter, he had never been sick. Until now.

Jason had been dragging his feet all morning. His responses and general snark had been slower than usual, if he responded at all. It had been a rare day when Bruce had allocated time for Jason to visit Wayne Enterprise for a "bring your kid to work" day. He wanted to show Jason the day to day workings of the corporation, and usually it was a fun experience for the boy. Though Jason was never much of one for casual conversation, he was a master at maneuvering. He could be very animated when someone started him on something he was genuinely interested in. Usually, this meant a conversation about gadgets with Lucius Fox. Jason was always excited to talk to the older man, particularly when he had come up with new designs for the bat's tools. Today, though, he had greeted Lucius with little more enthusiasm than if he were greeting a stranger. Bruce had asked twice if he had been alright, only to be waved off with a light scoff from Jason.

He hadn't been fine, though. It wasn't until lunch that Bruce had been proven right, when Jason had stood from his seat and promptly fallen over. His face would have hit the floor if Bruce had been even a second slower moving to catch him. The boy had been out of it for a couple of minutes, too. He had blinked a few times, but it didn't seem to register that Bruce had been repeating his name for a full minute. Looking at the child's face straight on, Bruce could see that he was flushed and his hair was sticking to his forehead wetly. When Bruce had reached to brush the wavy strands away, his skin had been hot to the touch.

"'m fine." Jason had said after another minute of staring mutely. "'top worryin'." His eyes had closed then and he hadn't opened them again until Bruce had physically shaken him in his arms. Fear could be a powerful motivator for action, particularly coming from a worried parent. Bruce hadn't asked again, calling to have the car brought around and heading home without a second word.

Jason had barely been conscious by the time they had returned to the manor. Alfred had been standing by with a crease between his brows being the only outward sign of his apprehension. Bruce had carried the boy into the manor, immediately heading upstairs to Jason's room. Alfred was right beside him, sticking a thermometer under Jason's tongue as Bruce laid him down on the bed.

"Oh my," Alfred murmured. "he has a fever of 103.2" The words were barely out of his mouth before he was rushing back downstairs. The old butler returned a moment later with towels and a bowl of ice water. Bruce didn't hesitate to dip a small towel in the water and then run it across the boy's forehead. Jason mumbled incoherently as he did so, but still hadn't opened his eyes.

"Dr. Thompkins will be here shortly, master Bruce," Alfred said quietly. "How did this happen?"

Oh God, not that question. It was more like, how had he not _noticed_ what was happening. He should have been more firm about checking that his son was alright. Should have slowed down his pace to accommodate the boy. He should have been a better father. He didn't say any of that, though. He just continued to wring out the towel and bring fresh, cold water to the boy's forehead. He felt like he was on autopilot, not really allowing himself to consider alternative methods – just one mechanical motion after another.

"Bruce?" The old man looked up from his son's flushed face to stare into the compassionate eyes of Leslie Thompkins. The woman put a firm hand over his own and gently guided him to stand away from the bed. She took a fresh thermometer from the bedside table and put it in Jason's mouth, under his tongue. She clicked her tongue when she read the result. "103.4," she said quietly. She looked up at Bruce, who was still staring at the slow, rasping rise and fall of Jason's chest. "Bruce, I need you to look at me."

When his eyes finally met hers, she stood from her perch on Jason's bed and placed a hand on his forearm. "We need to get this temperature down." She turned to Alfred, "Please get the bath tub ready, fill it with lukewarm water." Alfred nodded and immediately set off to carry out her instructions. "I'm going to need for you to carry him into the bathroom. We'll have to introduce him to the water slowly so we don't shock his system…do you hear me, Bruce?" He nodded mutely. "I'm going to help Alfred, please hurry." With that, she left for the bathroom.

Bruce approached Jason slowly, cautiously, as though Jason were a feral animal. He put a hand to the boy's forehead, where the temperature felt stifling. "Jason, I'm sorry… I'm going to make this right." Jason mumbled something too quietly for Bruce to hear.

Slowly, Bruce lifted the boy's shirt over his head, careful not to jar him. Bruce stopped once it was off, his vision falling to the myriad of little scars that stretched across Jason's torso. Burn scars, from cigarettes. Long, jagged lines, familiar from his own knife wounds. There were too many for a child to have. Bruce had to shake himself to continue, putting a hand under Jason's legs and pulling the boy up to hold him in his arms. _That_ , more than anything else, made Jason come alive. The boy shot straight up, eyes wide with terror and anger. He lashed out, pushing against the immovable wall of Bruce's chest.

"Get 'way from me!" the boy cried. But Jason's eyes were unfocused, and he wasn't looking _at_ Bruce so much as _through_ him. "No! Not 'gain…" Jason pleaded, pushing at Bruce again. Jason sagged against him, curling in on himself as far away from Bruce as possible. Jason rocked himself slowly as fresh tears slipped from his eyes. Whatever memory he was trapped in, it was strong enough to elicit a powerful reaction in such a small and sick child.

Bruce, for his part, stood very still. His mind swam with information from the boy's file. Jason had been hospitalized only three times in his youth, but one of them stuck out. It wasn't the worst by far, but it had mentioned evidence of sexual abuse. The child had been gone before police arrived, and no one had ever bothered to follow up – just another kid, another statistic.

He leaned close and whispered, "Jason, I need you to hear me right now. You have a very high fever and we need to get the temperature down." When Jason didn't even lift his head to acknowledge the words, he continued in a softer tone, "You're not back in that place, son. I need you to hear me right now."

To Bruce's eternal relief, Jason did look up at that. His gaze was still unfocused, but seemed to get sharper as he looked around the room. "Bruce?" Jason asked, voice a little raspy.

"I'm here."

"Why you lookin' at me like that?"

Bruce took a breath, trying to calm the raging storm in his belly. "Jason, I need to put you in the tub – your fever is going to kill you otherwise."

A brief flash of fear passes Jason's features, but he dutifully reaches out so that Bruce can lift the boy into his arms. In the bathroom, Alfred and Leslie were standing by, having already filled the tub with tepid water.

"Slowly lower him in." Leslie said before turning her gaze to Jason, whose eyes were wide with fear. "Jay, the water is going to feel cold to you, but it's not. You have to calm down and let the water do its job, okay?"

Jason nodded blindly, muscles tensing as Bruce lowered him into the water. The boy let out a strangled cry as his skin touched the water, but Leslie helped Bruce ease him down. Soothing hands ran through the boy's hair, almost lovingly, like a mother's. Bruce's arm still cradled the boy's shoulders as they sat together. Jason began to shiver, leaning his whole body toward Bruce and Leslie in search of warmth and safety. It was surreal, because Jason was never still, never quiet, and certainly never in search of comfort. Unless he couldn't help it, unless his body had betrayed him and he really was just a ten-year-old child who needed that comfort.

By the time Leslie pronounced the boy's temperature to be adequate, Bruce and Alfred had worked the boy into light pajamas and back into bed. Leslie left strict instructions in case Jason's temperature rose again, but otherwise said they were in the clear. By the time that he and Alfred had cleaned up the bathroom and Alfred had left to launder Jason's soaking wet clothes, it was dark outside. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at the now sleeping boy. He reached out and gently ran his fingers through the boy's unruly curls. His touch was very paternal in nature, so different than Catherine Todd's must have been, yet Jason leaned his into the touch, scooting closer to the comfort he found there. Teal blue eyes opened to look up at Bruce, eyes that were over-bright with fever in a flushed face. Something deep inside Bruce lifted its head, urging him to protect his child, but another part – the logical side of him that would always belong to the bat – urged him to leave, to protect his city.

But when he moved to leave the room, Jason made the decision for him. Too-thin arms wrapped themselves around Bruce's middle and held on tightly, rocking him back down to the bed. "Please… stay a little longer?" The voice was so small, Bruce could almost have imagined it. But Jason's arms were still around him, still pleading with him to stay, to offer reprieve to a child too sick to comfort himself. He'd never seen or heard this side of Jason. Jason, who was always too tough to discuss feelings, hopes or dreams. Jason, who was always too headstrong and too reckless.

Jason, who was only ten years old and had a fever and wanted nothing more than the warmth and relief of having someone else chase away his demons.

And so, Bruce's arms closed around the child, holding him close as he settled against the pillows that the boy liked to keep piled up at the head of the bed. He pulled the mass of blankets close around them both. It was several minutes before Jason spoke, minutes in which Bruce had assumed that the boy was finally asleep.

"I used to think my dad wanted to kill me." Jason said the words as though he fully expected the air itself to retaliate. The air grew chilly, almost as though Jason were invoking the spirit of Willis Todd. Bruce was silent, sensing that this was something that the boy had never said aloud before. Something exceptionally important and altogether more damning than any of the words written in the child's file. Jason took a shaky breath, coughing as he did so.

"He used to stand by my bed… well, my couch… with the light from the kitchen behind him. Real menacing. Like he would have given _you_ a run for your money." Jason's eyes slid closed at the last and he leaned into Bruce, as though he were trying to hide from the memories. "I'd think 'this is it, I'm a goner.'"

Bruce swallowed thickly. "Maybe… Maybe he was just checking on you." The words are a far cry from the truth and they both know it – Jason even scoffs as soon as the words are out. Bruce only holds the boy closer.

"Or maybe he was just thinking 'I'll give that little brat just one more day'…" Jason's voice is so small, Bruce has to strain to hear. The words make the room seem darker somehow, like the shadows have taken over completely and are reaching for his son as they speak. but the tone – the surety of impending death – makes a shiver run down Bruce's spine. This was it, this was the largest of Jason's demons. Certainly not the only one, not the worst, but the one that had been haunting him since he came to the manor. Bruce's arm tightens around the child and they sit in silence for a few minutes. He could almost believe that Jason had fallen asleep, but knows he hasn't. The boy's breathing is still too fast; he's still grasping the blankets heaped around him like they are his last lifeline to the world he lives in now. So, he waits for Jason to gather the courage to tell him about the demons inside of him, demons that are far too large and dangerous for a ten-year-old child to survive alone.

And then the boy laughed. A deep, bitter laugh that sounded as though it were coming from someone twice his age. "One day he made the decision. He beat me half to death."

Bruce remembered reading about the incident Jason was talking about. The second time the boy had been flagged by Child Protective Services. Jason had been found in an alleyway a mile away from the hospital, unconscious and barely breathing. He'd been in the hospital for six months recovering from broken bones. He'd bled in his brain, needed surgery to correct all the damage. The boy's jaw was still crooked from where the left side had been shattered. No one had come for him, not in all that time. When he had recovered enough for the police to ask him who had hurt him, Jason had shrugged and refused to cooperate. The incident officially went into his file as a result of 'gang violence'. But Willis Todd had left Gotham that very night, never to see his son or wife again. It didn't take the world's greatest detective to put two and two together. Still, he couldn't help the rage filling him at hearing Jason's words, couldn't help that his hands trembled as he gripped the child and held him close.

But Jason wasn't done yet. "I remember some of it. There was a moment, the last one I can remember before… well, before I woke up two weeks later…" Jason burrowed further into the blankets as he whispered, "My old man was standing over me, his hands around my neck, and there was nothing in his eyes. Nothing." Bruce could feel tears streaking down the boys face, wetting his shirt as a wet sob fell from his lips. "I know he tried to sell me, as a baby," He says, "And he blamed me for _everything_ when no one would take me. You can't know what that's like, Bruce. You can't know." Jason wrapped his arms around himself defensively, like he's still expecting Willis Todd to appear and try again to strangle him.

Near silent sobs escape from Jason, and each one feels like a physical weight in his stomach. Every instinct is telling Bruce to take it all away – but he can't. For the first time, he's struggling to comfort a child that is better off _without_ his parents. And the certainty of that crushes his heart as surely as Jason's tears. Bruce has always had a protective nature at heart. Even as a small child, he'd fought to protect the weak, the innocent. When a baby bird had fallen from a tree, Bruce had been right there, holding the tiny creature as it cried out, even knowing that there was no way that things could go back to the way they had been. Mother birds reject little ones that fall from the nest too early. Now though, there was hardly anything left to protect. Jason wasn't a child in the same sense that Dick had been. Jason had been pushed from the nest. He had fallen and broken into so many pieces – more pieces than Bruce had even realized, taking the boy in. But still. Bruce felt that nature well up as he looked down at this boy. This boy who had become his son so much faster than he had allowed with Dick. Maybe it was Jason's attitude, that he needed more guidance than his older brother. Maybe it was just that Bruce's heart was so much more receptive to the call of a child's. Or maybe it was just the way that Jason looked at him sometimes, when the boy thought he wasn't looking. A yearning. Fierce as his temper, something that _survived_ and proclaimed loudly that it wasn't letting go.

"It's okay, Jason." Bruce said, so quietly he isn't even sure that Jason has heard him. He runs his fingers through the boy's sweat-slicked hair in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

The boy leans into the touch. It's almost imperceptive, but Bruce takes it as a cue to continue. It makes Bruce think of his mother and he wonders briefly if Jason feels the same. Bruce swallows, only just noting that there are tears in his own eyes too. "I've got you," he says, like he's whispering to one of those baby birds from his childhood. "I've got you, and I'm not letting go."

Without warning or preamble, the solid mass of blankets that is Jason Todd has his arms wrapped around his neck. A tear-stained face is pressed against him, and the heat of the boy's fever is coming off him in waves. He doesn't say anything, though. He doesn't have to. Neither of them will acknowledge this moment once Jason is better. Bruce already knows that the pride in this child is far too great to ever talk about it, but still he is grateful. No matter how dark the memory is, Bruce is glad that he knows about it. That in the future, he will know why the boy flinches from his touch – that he will know it isn't because of anything that he has done, but what others have inflicted. Now, with Jason in his arms, he lets this embrace stand as a solemn, silent promise. A promise to protect his son from future harm, to keep him safe, even from a nightmare.

An hour later, when Jason's breathing has finally moved past the sobs catching in his throat, Bruce lays him down to sleep. As he pulls the covers over the boy, some long-buried instinct directs him to lean down and kiss the child's forehead, whispering "good night, son."

He can't be sure, but he's almost certain that he hears a murmur from the sheets saying, "Good night, Dad," before the lump of sheets turn over and sweet dreams claim the boy.

…

A few hours later, under the cover of darkness, Alfred made his way back to Jason's room. With the boy's freshly washed clothes under his arm, Alfred cautiously opens the door. Inside, he can see two lumps under the covers. Bruce has his arms tucked securely around the small bundle of blankets that could only be his son.

And Alfred can't help the smile that comes to his face.

He quietly puts Jason's clothes away in the dresser beside the bed before turning to the lumps un the covers. He sits on the edge of the bed and lays a kiss on each of their foreheads. "Goodnight, my boys," he says quietly.

And if both Bruce and Jason are smiling after he says it, well it must be from pleasant dreams.

 **I'm sorry baby Jason. I really am.**

 **Please review if you liked or didn't like this fic!**


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